I photographed this great, old Willow, growing at the pond’s edge, in early March 2011. Winter was ending; spring was trying to break through. A few more weeks and there would be green buds on every branch. But that day, the tree was still bare, and the sun appeared as a sinister orb glowing balefully through the winter haze that masked its immense heat and energy. I was so affected by this scene, that I wrote what I call a "margin poem," to memorialize it. (If you find the poem a bit too small to read, simply click on it to make it bigger.)
